


so how do we win?

by bwyn



Series: space aces [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Asexual Character, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prank Wars, accidental office romance at its finest, heavy on the fluff and light on the hurt if im being honest, hunk n pidge are there but arent named hahahhaha, lance is ace/biro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8923876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwyn/pseuds/bwyn
Summary: “How far are you willing to go?”“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging helplessly and feeling sick – at himself, at his mother, at the world in general. How far was he willing to go for somebody he’d never met? Yet, or ever?AKA Lance is ace and full of love, Keith dives headfirst into office shenanigans, things are suspended in Jell-O, coffee is a gift, and the office mascot is a domesticated goat named Annihilator.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Say, bwyn, why are you sprint writing a one-shot in the span of one day when you have a monster of a fic already in the works?  
> Because the thought came to me in the car ride home from the restaurant and I COULDN'T JUST NOT 
> 
> Anyway. I hope you enjoy it. Like, really, pls.

It was the beginning of twelfth grade when Lance figured it out. As a kid, he thought it was just fun and games, poking fun at the girls who giggled and the boys who blushed. As a young teen, he started to notice maybe things were a bit different in the way he saw his peers. A girl liked a boy, a boy liked a girl, and then eventually they started dating. Again and again it happened. Lance wondered why none of the boys were asking other boys out, or why the girls weren’t dating each other. He learned, eventually, that not everyone fancied any gender. Most seemed drawn to only one. Soon after, he also learned that it was very difficult figuring out who swung which way if they weren’t very obviously straight.

In tenth grade, he had a crush on a girl and a boy. Because he didn’t want to embarrass himself by asking out the boy, he chatted and flirted and hung out with the girl until, eventually, Lance asked her out. That was how, in essence, he got his first girlfriend.

Half a year later, they were juniors, and all their friends were talking about sex.

Lance’s girlfriend tried to initiate, but while he loved going on dates with her, spending time with her, holding hands and hugging and sometimes even kissing, Lance did not want sex. The intimacy set him on edge, made his stomach roll, and when his girlfriend told him to relax and just _feel it_ , he couldn’t. It wasn’t something he could give her.

A week later, they broke up.

Lance was much happier as her friend, anyway. She insisted that he was gay. Lance thought that made sense – he liked boys, didn’t he?

But after meeting a pretty boy at a party, flirting and dancing and drinking together for most of the night, when it came down to the other teen grinding down on Lance and catching his lips with his own, the same thing happened. His gut clenched, and his skin prickled not with arousal but with discomfort. Lance knew that the boy was attractive, he had a nice laugh, his jokes were funny and he was quick-witted. Lance wanted to take him out for a date. Lance didn’t want to have sex with him.

What was wrong with him?

Then, in twelfth grade, while researching for a biology assignment, Lance learned that the term _asexual_ didn’t just apply to starfish. It blew his mind. He spent five solid hours cruising through articles and blogs and videos until his head was filled with information that finally made sense. Nothing was _wrong_ with him, just as nothing was wrong with his bisexual ex-girlfriend or the gay boy he’d uncomfortably rejected at the party.

Lance was ace.

Halfway through college, and he finally tired of his mother’s questions about his love life, Lance told her he was ace. The conversation that followed became a shroud that smothered him whenever he went on a date from then on.

“I don’t quite understand,” she admitted readily enough, brow pinched in a frown, “You’re not interested in men or women alike?”

“No, I’m not like, sexually interested,” clarified Lance, “Romantically, though, I’m down.”

His mother tapped the table in front of her. “But sex is just another part of romance.”

“A part, but not the whole thing,” said Lance, telling himself over and over again that he just needed to be patient and be clear. She would understand in time, though maybe not right away.

“Are you sure you just haven’t found the right person?”

He knew that one was coming. “I’ve dated, mom. I liked them.”

“Maybe not _enough_ to, you know.”

“That’s not the point,” sighed Lance, “I’m just… not interested in that aspect of relationships.”

His mother’s frown deepened, though it was more concerned than it was puzzled now. “What if the one you fall in love with is?”

That gave Lance pause.

Seeing his expression fall, his mother continued, “How far are you willing to go?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging helplessly and feeling sick – at himself, at his mother, at the world in general.

How far was he willing to go for somebody he’d never met? Yet, or ever? He didn’t know what sacrifices he would make for the pleasure of someone who was probably a stranger right now. Would it be worth it? How would he know?

From then on, Lance tiptoed around those that might’ve showed interest in him. Sometimes his friendliness, his poking fun, became flirting without him realizing it, and Lance would have to feel the discomfort grip his gut and ice his chest as a friend expressed their interest. It didn’t matter if he wanted to go on that date, get that coffee, see that movie with them – because he knew, eventually, they would ask of him what he didn’t want to give.

So he avoided, and avoided, and avoided, ignoring the ache in his chest when his friends got lovers and said “oh he’s fine, he’s not interested in dating”.

He couldn’t tell them that he wanted to fall in love, too.

* * *

At the age of twenty-five, Lance has a job in the human resources department of a major corporation’s branch office. His desk has a flower bobblehead sitting on it for whatever reason, there are sticky notes all over the frame of his desktop computer, half of which have long outlived their usefulness, the other half just doodles, and he’s got a stack of files that need to be read, sorted, and submitted digitally to his boss by the end of the day. Anticipating a long and frustrating dance with the data input software, Lance shoves himself free from his desk and drags his feet to the break room.

One wall is dominated by all the appliances required to make the fuel that would ensure every person in the office made it through the day. In Lance’s opinion, it’s the most important wall. The opposite wall is just extra counter space, and the third is blocked by the large round table covered in magazines and half finished crossword puzzles. A stack of extra chairs sits beside the sole potted fern.

Lance makes a beeline for the coffee maker. It’s empty, so he opens the cupboard to grab one of the tins of coffee grounds. Humming a tune to himself, he adds the filter, the grounds, and the water, flicks on the switch and leans back on the counter to wait for his sweet, sweet caffeine. It takes until the pot is half full that he realizes there’s a strange smell coming from the machine.

Frowning, Lance leans in to take a whiff of the steam. His nose wrinkles at the sour smell. What the hell? He turns off the machine, flips open the water compartment and takes a sniff. Almost immediately he flinches back with a startled cough.

“Clara was planning on cleaning it earlier,” says a voice from the doorway, “That would be the vinegar she left in there.”

Lance straightens, a hand under his nose. One of his coworkers is leaning in the doorway, an empty mug dangling from one hand. He’s a familiar face – curved brows, unruly black hair, and critical eyes. They’ve met before, in passing, usually in groggy morning hazes prior to their first cups of coffee. All Lance knows of the guy is that he’s either in the graphics department or finances, since Lance never sees him on the west side of the building.

“And she just left it?” groans Lance. He turns the machine back on to finish flushing the vinegar coffee through. There was no saving the grounds.

The other man shrugs, entering the break room. “She probably forgot. She doesn’t even drink coffee, though.”

“What, ew, why?”

“Some sort of weakness in her bloodline,” he says before his gaze lands on the tin of coffee Lance had been using. “Seriously?”

“What?”

After placing his mug in the sink, he turns to face Lance, an eyebrow cocked. “This coffee? It’s mine.”

He places a hand on the lid and turns it around until the bold red letters spelling _Keith K’s_ are obvious. In his defence, the HR department’s communal coffee is in a similarly coloured tin, and that’s exactly what Lance tells him.

“Can’t you just check before you use it?” sighs Keith, “You HR people are the reason why I end up spending half my paycheck on coffee.”

“Maybe if you wrote your name _bigger_ and in _pink_ ,” drawls Lance in response.

“Use your _eyes_.” Keith pinches the bridge of his nose. “Whatever. I’ll just use some of your trash coffee when I inevitably run out.”

Lance squawks, “It isn’t _trash_.”

“How would you know if you keep using _mine?_ ”

Lance doesn’t have a response to that. He just shrugs, casting his gaze elsewhere and hearing the exasperated sigh over the bubbling of the coffee maker. When Lance looks back at him, Keith has rinsed out his mug, filled it with water, and he’s leaving the break room.

“You sure you don’t want some vinegar coffee?” asks Lance as he’s going, earning an over the shoulder middle finger.

He dumps the coffee when it’s finished, and it takes far longer than it should, but eventually Lance has a mug filled with black liquid, strained from a blue tin with bold red lettering on it.

With aid from a few more cups throughout the day, Lance finishes with the stack of files on time. His fingers feel like they’re quivering and there’s an unhealthy thrum starting behind his eyes, but he figures it’s nothing a good meal courtesy of his roommate can’t fix.

On his way home, Lance stops to pick up groceries. Even though it isn’t on the list, he finds himself standing in the coffee and tea aisle. The temptation is strong, but Lance shuffles past the instant coffee powders until he’s facing the real stuff. He has no idea if there’s a type of coffee his coworker would prefer – Lance has no preference so long as the caffeine is _strong_ – so he grabs a small bag of something quality and adds it to his basket.

The next day, he attaches a sticky note to the bag and places it beside the used and abused tin in the break room cupboard.

When Lance returns to the break room later on, requiring a second cup before noon to really get the ball rolling, he notices there’s a second sticky note beneath the first on the bag.

_for Keith_

_don’t mix w/ vinegar_

_Lance_

 

_I don’t know if I trust this_

_K_

With a snort, Lance grabs a pen from the table and scribbles a response on the note.

_why would I waste perfectly good coffee?_

_L_

Lance makes his coffee and returns to his desk. The day is long and slow, filled with the monotonous tapping of keyboards and the occasional murmur from one coworker to the next. Lance knows it’s just the calm before the storm, however. The holiday season was nearing, and that meant pain for HR. Lance takes a sip from his mug that is as long and slow as the day and sighs.

When he goes to the break room to grab his lunch, he checks the cupboard. There’s no response, but if Keith is as weak as Lance is, he’ll be back for his bihourly dose of caffeine soon. Lance finishes his balanced lunch, reminding himself to grovel at his roommate’s feet for taking such good care of him, before returning to work. He’s greeted by a new stack of files.

The next day as well begins with the files he was unable to finish the evening before. There are several paper cuts on his fingers, one of which is stinging slightly on the web between index and middle digits. One of his coworkers walks into their section, dragging his bag along the floor. He sees Lance staring forlornly at his hands, Lance sees where the strap of his bag has broke, and they share sympathetic glances. Feeling kind-hearted, Lance goes into the break room to fetch hot drinks for his coworker as well as himself. He sees the new post-it as he’s taking down Keith’s tin – the HR’s communal stuff turned out to be, in fact, pretty shitty.

_I can see you’re still taking my coffee_

_K_

Lance writes a simple _xoxo_ in response and takes a generous scoop of grounds out of the tin.

Over the course of the next several days, the number of notes wallpapering the front of the bag increases exponentially.

_you’re doing this on purpose aren’t you_

_K_

 

_this coffee is payment for the stuff I’m taking_

_L_

 

_I’d have to accept it first_

 

_It’s good shit_

 

_have you had it?_

 

_no but the bag says “rich”_

 

_so does your communal shit_

 

_touché_

_are you ever going to drink this or…_

 

_I think I might use a coworker as a taste tester_

Lance doesn’t see the last message from Keith until he comes in to work after the weekend. His shoulders are aching and there’s a persistent irritation somewhere between them, and no amount of stretching or flexing can get rid of it. It seems like a good day to take out his extra large mug – more the size of a bowl, so his coworkers had begun calling it his bug – and fill it to the brim. When Lance enters the break room, making way as several other staff leave after dropping off their lunches, he is greeted by a mottled round-bellied goat. She has a sequined yellow collar on, complete with gold bell so the staff know when she approaches. On a tag shaped like a diamond is the name _Annihilator_. It’s split onto two lines, since the entire name wouldn’t fit on one.

Lance kneels down to receive her blessing – a gentle bop of the forehead – before returning to the task at hand. He reaches up for the cupboard as the goat exits to do her patrol of the building. The note is there, as ever, and Lance takes it down to write a reply with the blue pen he’s taken to carrying with him.

“Hello, Annie.”

Lance glances up to see Keith in the doorway, hand reaching down to rub the goat’s horn for luck. When he straightens and sees Lance, his mouth twists in a wry grin.

“I was starting to forget what your face looked like,” he says. The coffee-stained mug Keith usually carries is balanced on top of a white box. “A bit of a pity I didn’t, actually.”

“If only I could forget how rude you are,” retorts Lance, turning back to note.

“You’re in the way of my sweet release from earthly tethers.”

“Hold on, I need to finish this.”

Keith’s next words are much closer as he leans into Lance’s space to reach for his tin. “You could just, I don’t know, say it to my face?”

Lance sidesteps to give him room. “That would defeat the purpose of the sticky notes.”

“Right,” says Keith. Lance glances at him to see his expression when he notices how much his coffee stores have suffered in the past week. It doesn’t stop him from scooping away. “You want leftover cake? Clara’s birthday was yesterday.”

He nods to the white box he left on the counter. Lance still has the post-it attached to his finger as he sidles over to the box. With one finger on the edge of the lid, he looks back at Keith.

“From graphics, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“There’d better be a fun design on it.”

He misses Keith’s expression when he lifts the lid, but he hears the snort. Inside the box is a half-eaten vanilla cake, all the icing white except for the printed image of a robot unicorn staring up at Lance.

“Is this ironic?” whispers Lance, somewhat desperately.

Keith is beside him, looking down at the creation solemnly. “No idea.”

They share A Look™. Lance takes a piece of cake to eat with the mug of coffee he steals from Keith’s pot. Keith watches him do it with a slow shake of his head.

It’s the next day when Lance wanders into the graphics department, a file tucked under one arm and two mugs in his hands. After seeing no response on his post-it, Lance had decided to take matters into his own hands and bother Keith on his own turf. Lance has, on very few occasions, visited this particular department. Personnel files are usually brought to him. But the layout is relatively the same as his department’s, though it seems to be far more cluttered and colourful. Lance spots Keith by his hair, sitting at a desk by a window. He walks over to him, putting down the mug on what appears to be a coaster the shape of Pac-Man, and grinning when Keith jumps at the sudden movement.

“What– Oh, Lance.” Keith leans back in his chair with a sigh, retracting his hands from where they’d been practically glued to the keyboard and mouse.

“What’re you working on?” asks Lance as he takes a peek.  Like Lance’s, Keith’s computer also suffers under an unnecessary border of multicoloured sticky notes. Adobe Illustrator is open, one of many applications battling for the man’s attention, and what appears to be the new ad campaign in its skeletal form occupies much of the screen.

Keith gestures at it, brow pinching. “I messed up one of the layers and I can’t find out which one. The colours are messed up one second, I fiddle around, then it’s the lineart that’s out of whack. God, Lance, I hope there is some sort of poison in this coffee so I can collapse and go home.”

“Or the hospital,” provides Lance cheerfully as Keith brings the mug to his lips and guzzles half of it in one go despite the heat.

When Keith lowers the mug, his voice is a little raw. “What are you doing over here?”

“Dropping stuff off,” says Lance, flicking the file under his arm, “And I just wanted to see my favourite coffee connoisseur.”

Keith opens his mouth to give a no doubt dragging retort, but one of his coworkers calls his name and grabs his attention. Replacing the mug on the coaster, Keith rises from his chair with a groan.

“I’ve got to go deal with this,” he says and nods to the steaming drink, “Thanks for the coffee.”

Lance waves with his mug as Keith crosses the room to help a coworker with computer troubles. Turning to leave, since the folder wasn’t actually meant for the graphics department, Lance finds himself grinding to a halt a half step away. He turns back to the desk, looks over at where Keith has his back to him, and then, in a stroke of brilliance, Lance gives in to his impulsiveness.

Ten minutes later, Keith sits at his desk and goes to rest his hands on the keyboard and mouse, but they miss. He stares at where his palms rest on the surface of his desk. Slowly but surely, his gaze travels across all of the belongings placed there. Everything, from the post-it notes on the monitor to the paper clips and stacked envelopes beneath it, is a couple inches to the left of where they usually are.

Lance doesn’t realize the consequences of his actions until the next day. He passes Keith at the entrance to the washrooms, they nod to each other, and Lance hurries inside to rid his bladder of the burn of barely digestible coffee. When he returns to his work, his first feeling is one of panic as the seat drops from beneath him. Pretending he didn’t just squeal, arms thrust out at his sides lest he fall over, Lance looks around him. He spots several coworkers hiding smiles behind hands. The chair doesn’t rise when Lance tugs on the pedal beneath the seat, whether he’s on it or not.

A solid fifteen minutes are spent trying to fix it before Lance, shoving the thing back in frustration, stands and his eyes land on the neat row of screws balanced on top of his computer monitor.

Later, when Annihilator passes through, Lance scratches her between the horns for good fortune in all his future endeavors. Namely, wrecking Keith in the war that is about to ensue.

It takes some time and planning, but Lance has a plot. He waits until Keith is gone for the day before stealing into the graphics department and dumping the majority of his office supplies into a bag. When he notices Keith’s coworkers, the last to leave, watching him, Lance raises a finger to his lips with a conspiratorial smile. One of them doesn’t seem bothered in the least, and the other grins before motioning for him to continue on his way.

When he returns to his shared apartment, his roommate is already in the tail end of dinner preparations. She looks up as he dumps the groceries for the next few days on the last of the available counter space. Her white hair is twisted into a high bun, and her dark skin is dusted with some flour from the batter.

“What’s that?” she asks, nodding at the heavy bag Lance leaves on the floor.

“Part of my plan,” he replies with a proud grin, “This, Allura, is the beginning of the end for Keith.”

“Play nice, Lance,” she sighs, “Whatever this is, it’s not how you make friends.”

“This isn’t about friendship.” Lance upends one of the grocery bags. More than a dozen small boxes spill out. “This is about a rivalry.”

Allura blinks at the multitude of Jell-O. She looks at Lance and his excited smile. “Just remember to clean up afterwards.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

It involves staying up late, using most of their bowls and Tupperware, and consequently getting up extra early to arrive at the workplace before Keith, but it’s worth it when Lance hears his name being yelled from the other side of the building. Lance saunters into the graphics department, reveling in the laughter being shared by Keith’s coworkers at his expense. The man himself is standing at his desk, brows heavy like storm clouds over his eyes. For a moment, Lance is worried he might have gone too far.

But he sees the corner of Keith’s mouth twitching as he struggles to keep a straight face.

“Ye–es?” grins Lance, hands casually in his pockets.

“Why?” asks Keith, poking a finger at his stapler. It shakes in the confines of its blue jelly cage.

Lance shrugs and swipes a chunk off Keith’s suspended paperclips. “Because I felt like it?”

Keith’s eyes follow the Jell-O as it disappears into Lance’s mouth. Then his gaze snaps up to meet Lance’s, and his lips curve into a dangerous smile.

“Then I declare war,” he says, voice low with promise, and Lance feels his heart kick in his chest.

For the next week, Lance is extra cautious. He checks his meals before he eats them, and stops taking Keith’s coffee out of fear it’s tainted with laxatives. The odd time Keith catches him doing it, he simply smiles enigmatically. So absorbed is he with his thoughts, Lance finds himself staring glassy-eyed at his computer screen more than once. After confiding in Allura, she tells him outright just to let it happen. He could plan for his rebuttal in the meantime. It’s obvious Allura doesn’t want to enable him, but her advice does help Lance get back on track with his work.

Lance is entering the break room for lunch when he sees Keith next. A pizza box is open on the table, but the lid is blocking Lance’s view of the toppings.

“Clara called it in as thanks for the cake,” explains Keith from where he sits at the table. He’s got a pair of reading glasses perched atop his head that Lance wants to slide down to his nose.

“What kind is it?” asks Lance as he approaches. Keith swivels the box around so he can see, and Lance wrinkles his nose. “Oh, yuck, pineapple.”

“What, seriously?” Keith raises his eyebrows at him as he lifts a slice of Hawaiian out of the box. “You’re one of those?”

“It’s not just pizza,” says Lance, turning to the fridge to get out his lunch, “I ate way too much pineapple as a kid, and now I can’t stand the taste _or_ smell of it.”

Keith makes a thoughtful sound. “Is that so?”

Lance realizes his mistake too late. Annihilator trots into the room, headed straight for Keith and the pizza. The man rolls up a slice and offers it to the goat. She happily devours it in seconds.

“For good luck,” says Keith with a mischievous grin that makes Lance feel more awake than three cups of black coffee ever could.

He worries about that feeling, but admittedly not as much as he’s concerned about his future in the workplace. Luckily, he doesn’t have to fret for long. When he walks into the office the next morning, Lance expects pineapple paraphernalia, maybe pineapple-patterned wrapping paper covering all his stuff. What he doesn’t expect is a massive fruit bouquet built out of solely his most hated fruit, permeating everything he owns with its evil scent. The edges of the fruits are browning, meaning it’s been sitting on his desk for some time. Trying not to physically gag at his proximity to the thing, Lance carries it to the break room and leaves it in the center of the table. Later, he realizes his mistake when the break room is just as pungent as the surface of his desk, soaked as it is in pineapple juice that no amount of wet wipes can erase.

At the end of the day, Keith walks into the HR department, drags an empty chair over to Lance’s desk and sits down where he can prop an elbow beside the computer. Lance stares at him, nose tingling from the scent of pineapple.

“Here to see my tears as I relive my traumatic childhood memories?” drawls Lance, tossing the tube of wet wipes he’d decided earlier needed to be a permanent fixture.

“That’d be a bonus,” says Keith, “But I’m here because there’s no way I trust you enough to go home before you.”

“Aw, you’re going to wait for me?” coos Lance, shooting Keith a teasing grin.

“Yes.” And maybe it’s a trick of the setting sun out the window, but Keith’s cheeks seem ruddier than Lance has ever seen them.

“How romantic,” says Lance, congratulating himself on being able to say it jokingly while his face heated up.

As promised, Keith waits until Lance finishes up, and they leave the building together. It becomes a habit.

At home, Allura takes one whiff of Lance and freezes in the middle of what she’s doing. “Why do you smell like your least favourite fruit?”

Lance groans.

“Are you okay?” she asks, “Are you going through a rebellious phase?”

He assures her he isn’t and collapses on the couch to brainstorm.

The next day, he sees two people he’s never met before sitting in the break room.

“Oh hey,” says Lance as he goes to the coffee pot, “I haven’t seen you guys around before.”

The smaller of them, a young woman with a shock of messy brown hair, shrugs her shoulders.  “IT from head office.”

“Some of the computers are running slow so we’re checking them out,” adds her companion, a frankly intimidatingly large guy if not for his kind smile.

“Good luck with that,” says Lance with feeling, “Annie probably chewed some of the wires again.”

“Who… is chewing wires?” inquires the big guy uncertainly.

“Annie, the goat.”

“The goat.”

“Office mascot!” Lance shoots them a grin. He takes the pot from the machine and sniffs experimentally. “She’s apparently a companion animal, but we have no idea who for. She usually doesn’t cause any problems, though. Do you know if this coffee is old?”

The woman shrugs while her coworker seems to be struggling with the thought of a companion office goat. Lance decides the coffee smells old or burnt or something, so he dumps the liquid down the sink and preps the machine for another pot.

“ _Hey_ , that was fresh,” snaps Keith from the doorway.

Lance blinks at the pot that is already dripping in the new coffee and grins sheepishly at Keith. “Sorry. Well, now there’s going to be a fresher pot.”

“My coffee is expensive Lance, and you wasted it.” Keith sighs and stops to stand beside Lance, casting the machine a forlorn expression.

“It smelled burnt, okay.”

“You mean it smelled like _roasted coffee grounds_.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Just use the stuff I gave you– _Oh wait_ , you wouldn’t because it’s a gift from _me_.”

He shoots Keith a wink and nudges by him to rinse out his mug. He doesn’t see the flustered blush creeping up Keith’s face, but the head office people watch it happen and share amused glances.

When Lance’s phone rings in his pocket, he sees Allura’s number displayed. Knowing she never chats long, he figures he can take the time to answer and lifts the phone to his ear.

“ _Babe_ , hey,” he says as he excuses himself from the break room, “Do we have parmesan or should I get some–?”

He’s interrupted by a much deeper voice than what is usually Allura’s. It takes a moment for it to click.

“Lance, why the pet names?” sighs her boyfriend.

“Oh, it’s babe’s babe,” greets Lance, “Hey man, Shiro, my man, don’t be so jealous. What am I gonna do?”

“I’m not jealous,” says Shiro. Lance likes to tease him incessantly regardless of how true that is. “I just thought you wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea.”

“What? It’s not like I’m lying, she _is_ a babe–“

“Never mind,” drones Shiro, “Also, there’s no parmesan.”

Lance promises to pick some up on the way and hangs up after Shiro gives him the updated grocery list. He returns to the break room, the IT pair now accepting mugs of coffee from Keith.

“That your girlfriend?” asks Keith when he notices Lance’s return.

Lance is used to the question, but it doesn’t stop him from busting his gut laughing every time someone asks.

“ _Hell_ no,” he manages, teary-eyed, “She’s my roommate.”

“Ah,” says Keith. His mouth twitches. “Yeah, I would’ve been surprised if you actually had a girlfriend.”

Lance’s jaw drops, and he splutters indignantly, “What the hell, dude, why d’you gotta be this way?”

Keith just laughs and the IT pair try to hide their grins in their coffee.

A rebuttal to the pineapple incident comes to Lance on a Sunday when he’s picking up new cutlery from the dollar store. As usual, he wanders down the other aisles to see what sort of knickknacks he could possibly rationalize purchasing to Allura, and his gaze falls upon a basket full of little aliens. He’s struck with the Best Idea™.

It’s admittedly far tamer than the Jell-O incident, but every image that comes into Lance’s head is accompanied by a bubbling laugh, so he figures it’s a good way to tease Keith nevertheless. At the office the following day, Lance gets to work setting up the little figurines in places he knows Keith will find them throughout the day, dodging the man in question all the while. When passes him to make coffee, and no doubt find the alien currently sitting in his tin, Lance scurries quickly to the graphics department to hide an alien in Keith’s drawer, another behind the computer screen, and finally place one at the corner of the desk, Keith’s reading glasses perched carefully on its cheaply painted face. Lance leaves the department just as Keith is returning to it, and the suspicious look he levels Lance is enough to send the latter bursting into giggles as he goes.

Another alien is dedicated to sitting on top of Keith’s lunch. Lance attaches a sticky note to it saying _your mullet is extraterrestrial._ He does the same to the other figurines, scribbling random barely-insults and almost-compliments on the notes and making it look like the aliens were holding them up. One went in the bathroom, another sat at the base of the potted fern, and so on and so forth until Lance ran out of the little plastic dolls.

They meet at lunch, eating together at the round table. Lance gets to see Keith burst out laughing at the alien on his Tupperware, and then witnesses Keith trail off midsentence when his gaze meets the alien staring at him from the fern. When he excuses himself to go to the bathroom, Lance just waits until several long minutes later when Keith returns.

“What took you so long?” asks Lance, doing his best not to crack and failing miserably when his giggles start bubbling up, “Are you a shy pisser?”

Keith throws his hands up. “I can’t deny having an alien stare at me made me slightly uncomfortable.”

Lance’s laughter is contagious, and Keith joins in with a laugh of his own at how ridiculous everything is. His shaking causes the glasses he’d stolen from the desk-alien to fall from the crown of his head, landing on the bridge of his nose. Instead of pushing them back up, Keith just moves them a moment to wipe his eyes. Then he looks over the frames at Lance.

“Just you wait,” he says.

Lance’s breath hitches in his throat mid-laugh. Keith doesn’t seem to notice as he takes his containers to rinse them out.

It’s maybe an hour later when Lance starts seeing the aliens popping up indiscriminately around the office. They’re sitting on his coworker’s monitors, at the feet of their desks, in the middle of the floor, and they’re always staring straight at Lance when he happens to glance up and spot them. Lance has no idea how Keith is doing it, but he admits it’s pretty funny.

By Wednesday, the aliens have become a staple in the office space, travelling around not only by Lance and Keith’s hands anymore. Everybody seems to make it part of the game to do it in secret. Nobody knows who balanced the green alien on the ceiling fan, or who painted winged eyeliner on the round blue one and set it on a makeshift saddle between Annihilator’s horns.

In the morning, Keith comes to Lance as he’s working, obviously trying to withhold laughter.

“You have to see this,” he says, perching on the armrest of Lance’s chair with his phone in hand.

Lance leans over slightly to watch the video Keith had taken. It features one of his coworkers, clearly after the incident, irritably tossing a yellow something across the room. The camera zooms in unsteadily to show the raised patch of black fabric that had been hiding the yellow thing on the man’s seat.

“Someone hid an alien there,” Keith is explaining, slightly strained as he tries to stay calm, “And Jeff sat _right on it_ and just fucking shrieked. God, I thought my lungs were going to burst–“

He’s still talking, but Lance can’t say he’s paying attention anymore. Keith’s wearing his reading glasses, and his lashes are long enough that they nearly brush the lenses even as the frames slide whenever Keith chuckles. He’s sitting close. Lance isn’t sure whether he’s feeling his body heat or if it’s just him overreacting. By the state of his heart, jackhammering away inside his ribcage, he can assume the latter. Lance has to remind himself to breathe, and when he does, he’s met with whatever subtly spicy deodorant Keith is wearing. When Lance feels the urge to lean his face against Keith’s arm, he knows he’s got a problem.

When Keith looks down at him, mouth spread wide in a grin, Lance panics, but he’s had years of practice keeping it from his face. He laughs at the video, moreso at Keith’s reaction, and when Keith leaves him to continue work, Lance rises to amble into the closet-turned-pen that is Annihilator’s room. She isn’t always there, taken as she is to wandering the offices, but she is now and Lance kneels down to scratch around the alien between her horns.

“Hey Annie,” he murmurs, feeling faint by how stubbornly his heart is beating, “He’s really annoying. And really pretty. Isn’t he, Annie?”

The goat doesn’t respond, but she tickles his chin with her furry nose, and he takes that as a blessing.

Throughout the rest of the day, Lance finds himself avoiding Keith at all costs. He takes his lunch at a different time, eating it at his desk instead of the break room, and even foregoes the coffees he usually has. He throws himself into his work, whereas before he might’ve taken a break to pester Keith. Unsure whether Keith might come see him again, Lance makes sure he at least looks busy, even though the lack of caffeine at designated times of the day is turning him into a glass-eyed zombie. As evening draws near, his heart is calm and he feels in control, but there’s a definite throbbing ache forming behind Lance’s eyes from caffeine withdrawal and the stress from staring at the computer screen so intensely.

Inevitably, Keith finds him as he always does since the pineapple incident. Lance tries to maintain his calm, but he sees Keith in his periphery, hears him drag his usual chair of choice over, and while he thinks he’s got it under control, Lance makes the mistake of looking at Keith, meeting his gaze, and his chest feels like it may burst.

It hurts how much Lance likes him.

Keith’s eyes are flitting over Lance’s face, watching it probably turn into a grimace of actual pain, and his own face falls in confusion. Lance’s heart squeezes in his chest. It’s unfair to bring down Keith, when he has no idea the battle raging between Lance’s feelings and his logic.

“Today has sucked,” says Lance before Keith can ask, “I haven’t had _nearly_ enough coffee, I’m craving my roommate’s spaghetti and this–“ He gestures at the files he couldn’t input due to his haze. “–just sucks.”

Keith seems to believe it readily enough, confusion melting away to a sympathetic quirk of his mouth. Lance wants him to stop, just _stop_ , but he holds himself back from an inappropriate outburst. Instead, he gives Keith a tired smile in return.

“Early night for you, then,” declares Keith, “Get the hell off the computer and go home.”

Lance whines and Keith shushes him.

“People are starting to spread rumors of the aliens coming alive at night already.” Keith levels a stern glare at Lance. “Don’t be the body we find in the morning.”

Unable to help it, Lance huffs a laugh. He caves, turns off the computer, and declares the stack of unfinished files part of Future-Lance’s problems.

Unfortunately for Lance, Allura’s spaghetti and a good night’s rest don’t magically cure him of his agonizing feelings for Keith. Throughout Thursday and Friday, work is painful. He constantly wants to see Keith, talk to Keith, lean against him and hope the stress of the workday would melt away–

But he can’t. Lance forces himself to only drop by Keith’s desk twice over the two days. He doesn’t linger in the break room while Keith prepares coffee, and during lunch he cuts his meal short with the excuse of work, wherein reality Lance could sit there for an hour just gazing at Keith. The reaction he has when he sees Keith seems to be evolving rapidly: the swooping in his belly, the tightness in his chest, the heat that claws at his face, and all of it is because of Keith. It’s starting to scare Lance – he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to keep it cool before _something_ happens.

But he can’t afford to avoid Keith anymore than what can be considered normal due to work. Because Keith is his friend, and despite the ferociously blooming feelings smothering Lance every second of the day, the last thing he wants to do is make Keith think he’s done something wrong.

So Lance bears it, finding solace and regret in the coming of the weekend. Space and time, that’s what he needs, or so he tries to convince himself. He doesn’t doubt that come Monday, his heart will still be trying to force its way out of his chest.

“This week’s really wrecked you, huh?”

Lance doesn’t look up from where his hands cradle his head. He responds with a groan.

The office is empty but for the two of them, Lance being forced to stay behind to finish the rest of his data input and come up with a few follow-ups on the company’s newest employee campaign.

“You clearly haven’t been giving the proper sacrifices to our savior, Annie.”

Lance snorts a laugh at that, lifting his head and slapping his hands on the desk. “I’ve done what I can. The rest is up to Future-Lance.”

“Future-Lance must hate you,” says Keith, “Not that Future-Lance isn’t going to be as terrible as Past-Lance, let’s be real.”

The other man dodges Lance’s smack with a laugh. As Keith drags his chair back to its owner’s desk, Lance turns off his computer and drops his phone into his pocket. When he hears Keith clear his throat hesitantly, the sound so unlike him, Lance can already feel his stomach dropping as he turns around.

“Do… Do you want to get a coffee?” asks Keith, something timid about his expression and the uncertainty in his words like a kick to Lance’s gut. “Or, maybe not coffee, since that’s all we chug every day.”

Lance knows Keith is asking him on a date. He knows in the inflection of the question, in the intent behind Keith’s gaze, in how his hands are shoved into his pockets and shoulders nearly hunched. Lance knows, and he feels the sour hold it has on him even though he wishes it wouldn’t. He knows, and he won’t pretend not to just to save himself, not with Keith standing there looking so sincere.

“I, uh…” He regrets opening his mouth almost instantly when his voice comes out raspy. His discomfort is palpable. “I–I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

There’s a beat where nothing happens. The faint hum of the lights and the sound of the road down below the building are deafening, but that could also be the blood roaring in Lance’s ears. Then Keith’s shoulders shift back, his chin is slightly lifted. He looks casual, but Lance knows him.

“No problem,” says Keith.

Lance hears the lie.

“Go on ahead of me tonight,” says Lance.

Keith does.

Alone in the office, Lance looks around and wonders since when everything had become so desaturated. After waiting several long minutes, Lance starts towards the exit. Then his chest throbs and there’s heat behind his eyes, his breath coming out too fast and haggard. Lance sits on the floor, hand against his chest, trying to calm down. But it’s impossible. He’s barely hanging on, keeping everything at bay, when Annihilator finds him. All she does is lay down beside him, her side pressed warmly against his leg, and she nudges her head against Lance’s arm. He obeys the prompt, and as soon as his hand feels her tough fur, he breaks.

The sobs are wretched and refuse to be quelled, so he doesn’t try. He just cries until it hurts and then some. Annihilator is steadfast beside him, a presence to remind him he isn’t alone, that it’s safe to cry, and Lance isn’t sure if it’s a good thing but he’s so far gone he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to stop even if the entire company came bursting through the doors.

In the space of a breath, there’s a moment where Lance tries to find his voice. “I ruined it,” he whispers hoarsely, “I ruined _everything_.”

Saying it out loud only makes it worse. The friendship he’s built with Keith, the warmth and the feelings and the fun – all of it, destroyed, because Lance is afraid.

Afraid of a commitment he wants to be able to give to Keith, but is uncertain whether he actually can.

For the first time in years, Lance despises himself.

Eventually he manages to pick himself up. He splashes frigid water on his face, deciding wisely not to check his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Before he leaves, Lance dishes out his leftovers for Annihilator as thanks, and tries to convince himself that he was imagining the concerned way in which the goat watched him go.

He holds himself together valiantly until he gets home. Allura has her phone in her hand, Lance’s contact pulled up and her thumb over the call button. When she sees his face, she puts the phone down and walks to him. She doesn’t need to say anything.

“He asked me out,” says Lance, and the tears start again, “And I said no.”

Allura holds Lance until he exhausts himself again. She helps him to bed, forces him to drink water, and promises him a delicious breakfast in the morning – or afternoon, whenever he decides to wake.  Lance is grateful, and tells her so, but Allura shakes her head and gives him the slightest smile, sad and regretful, before she leaves the room.

As was the theme for the rest of his life, Lance’s troubles don’t magically disappear in the morning. He can’t remember what he dreamed about last night, but by the feeling in his chest, it hadn’t been good. Lance’s gaze is fixated on the ceiling of his room, his entire face sore and his mouth parched – but he can’t summon the energy to drink from the glass of water sitting on the side table.

Allura eventually brings food to him on a tray. They’re all his favourites, but he can’t seem to feel anything besides a constant, crushing disappointment directed at himself. But Allura is being ginger with him, so he props himself up and smiles and thanks her.

“Do you want to go out for a walk today?” she asks him softly, “The weather is really nice.”

“No thank you,” rasps Lance.

“Then a movie? We can marathon your favourites.”

He wants to say no and sleep the day away, but he knows he’ll just see Keith when he closes his eyes, so he nods.

It’s evening when Allura’s tough love kicks in. After three movies, Lance had moved into his room to sulk. Allura stands in the doorway, the door flung open mercilessly to let the hallway light spill in. Lance audibly groans from beneath his covers.

“Lance, you need to eat,” says Allura, balancing stern and gentle in equal measures.

He responds with a groan.

“You need to get up and do something,” she persists, “I made spaghetti, come on.”

When Lance says nothing, and he doesn’t hear a follow-up, Lance foolishly thinks Allura has gone. Then long fingers are diving under his duvet and he feels them wrap around his ankles. Lance protests loudly, but Allura doesn’t let go until she’s dragged him out into the hallway.

“Take the blanket if you must,” she says, glaring down at him, “But you’re going to eat at the table.”

Lance obliges only because he knows Allura could kick his ass if he persisted. When Sunday dawns bright, Allura gives him no warning before she’s lifting him bodily out of bed, blankets and all. Predictably, Lance practically screams his alarm, but Allura pays him no mind as she carries him into the living room and dumps him onto the couch.

“What the hell?!” croaks Lance unimpressively.

“If you’re going to sulk, at least do it where you can pretend to be enjoying the weekend.” She points at the television, which is already set to a movie network.

Lance isn’t able to summon enough energy to trudge back to his room, not when he knows Allura would obliterate him for trying. So he sits on the couch and watches movie after movie, occasionally rising to eat something at Allura’s behest. Evening approaches, the third Alien movie is rolling its credits and Lance has stopped pretending to pay attention. He’s formed a human burrito occupying the entirety of the couch.

Allura has been walking up and down the hall between her bedroom and the bathroom for some time now. Lance hears the jangle of her keys as she drops them on the counter.

“Lance,” she says, looking over the back of the couch at him, “I’m going out.”

“Mmph.”

“To hang out with people not reverting into their emo sixteen year old alter egos.”

“ _Mmmmph_.”

There’s a moment of silence, then there’s a knock at the door and she sighs.

“Coming!” she calls, turning from Lance and the couch and picking up the keys off the counter.

Lance hears the door open, and Shiro’s voice as he greets Allura. There’s a questioning note in his voice and Lance creates a little pocket in his burrito so he can listen in better.

“Sorry about him,” Allura is sighing, “I think he’s transitioning into a hot topic role model.”

Okay, rude.

“I know what you mean,” snorts Shiro, “This one’s been moping all weekend.”

“We watched all the High School Musicals and he could still barely eat my spaghetti.”

“…What broke him?”

Lance groans at them as loud as he can manage. Allura snorts, unimpressed, and there’s a shuffle at the door.

Then Allura is saying, “Wait–“

“Lance?”

The voice comes from above him, where Allura had been only a minute before. But it isn’t her voice, or Shiro’s voice–

“What,” blurts out Lance, practically flying off the couch and his blankets unraveling around him, “ _What–_ “

Lance clutches the blankets as they try to fall from his shoulders, eyes meeting Keith’s and his entire body freezing. He’s incapable of speaking. All the moisture seems to have been sucked from his mouth. Keith’s eyes are dark, heavy-lidded like he’s been staring at a screen without his glasses again. His hair looks like he’s been running his fingers through it. There’s a complicated mixture of feelings kicking the inside of Lance’s ribcage and stomping on his stomach.

Then Keith’s gaze flicks to Lance’s hair, at the ends reaching dramatically for the ceiling, and he laughs automatically. “That hair is something else. What the hell are you doing?”

Keith seems to remember, then, what happened between them, and his face twists briefly – _painfully_ – before settling on carefully neutral.

Beyond him, Allura and Shiro are watching them. The cogs barely turn before they click into place, and Allura – Lance curses how fast she catches on – is smiling.

“Oh, he’s been sulking because he rejected an offer to go out with his _crush_.”

Lance stares at his roommate, eyes wide in betrayal. He can’t bring himself to look at Keith, because _holy shit._ He silently begs the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“Shiro, honey,” says Allura, because she isn’t done destroying Lance yet, “How about we step out first?”

And Shiro, because he’s just as evil, says, “Great idea.”

Then they’re gone, Lance is clutching his blankets and staring at the door, Keith is standing behind the couch. Floorboards, please.

There’s silence – awful, _awful_ silence – for a terribly long moment before Keith speaks first.

“So, Shiro’s girlfriend is your roommate, huh?”

Something inside Lance snaps. Keith is obviously trying to be casual, be normal, maintain the status quo they’d built, but it’s killing Lance because it’s his fault. He doesn’t want Keith to have to pretend. He wants him to be happy – so much so, he can feel the ache in his chest swell.

So he clenches his fists in the duvet, tries to meet Keith’s gaze and, when that fails, settles for looking between the couch and where Keith’s hands are resting on the back of it.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” says Lance, summoning every ounce of his self control not to just start babbling incoherently, “I just– I haven’t liked anyone in a really long time but– but when you asked me out I just– I hadn’t even thought about what I was willing to give, or do because I– I’m not–“

He stops for a moment to breathe and find his courage.

“I’m ace. I’m ace and I panicked and said no because that’s what I’ve always done but I–I’ve never liked someone as much as I like you and after the fact, I actually started to think about it, and what I’d be willing to give if just for the chance to– to spend time with you and even though, it still– the thought of, you know, the physical needs, it makes me cringe but if– if it’s you– I think, I think I’d be okay at least _trying_.”

There’s silence. Lance is fixated on the couch cushions, unable to even look at just Keith’s hands.

Then Keith _laughs_. Lance wants to just drop to the floor and demand it devour him, until Keith starts talking.

“I… shit,” huffs Keith, his voice fond and yet so much more than that, “I like you so damn much it _physically hurts_ sometimes.”

The heat searing Lance’s face goes beyond anything he’s felt for the past week. Slowly, he raises his gaze, seeing Keith’s white-knuckled grip on the couch. But he isn’t done speaking yet, and Lance sees him swallow and his jaw tense before he opens his mouth again.

“You know, Shiro gave me shit because… he said if I had it this bad for you, and I was just gonna let it go because I was scared you’d want sex all the time, the least I could do was give it a try. I thought about that a lot, and I decided that I had to see how far I was willing to go for you, because I couldn’t handle this stupid ache in my chest anymore looking at you. If it was you, I figured, why the fuck not? It’s now or never.”

Lance is staring at him. Keith’s eyes are over bright. He laughs again, and Lance wants to burn the image of him in this moment into his retinas forever.

The smile Keith gives him is brilliant. “I’m asexual, too,” he adds as an aside, as if that single phrase didn’t mean the world, as if “maybe you’ll meet another ace one day, Lance” isn’t something Lance has heard and felt sickeningly hopeless about years before – but Keith is here, in front of him, now.

“Just so you know,” says Lance, so done with caring about how his voice is rasping with emotion, “I’m going to start crying now.”

And he abandons his blankets to launch himself over the couch, wrapping himself around Keith and burying his face into his shoulder and just sobbing. Keith is laughing, but he’s definitely crying too, his arms around Lance and clutching him like he’s a lifeline as much as Lance is holding on to him in the same manner. Shaking fingers run through Lance’s mess of hair, doing nothing to tame the bedhead but grounding Lance all the same. The deep ache in his chest is turning, steadily, into a warmth that spreads from his core to the ends of his fingers and toes, making his head fuzzy with relief and joy.

He feels Keith’s voice vibrate through his chest as he asks, “Can we go for that coffee, then?”

“Yes, _please_.”

When they go to work on Monday, the change between them is subtle but clear. The bag of coffee beans in the cupboard is ground and takes up the once-empty space in a blue tin. Sticky notes with almost-insults and barely-compliments are pressed to one set of containers in the fridge. Throughout the day, Lance will visit Keith, or vice versa, drape over the other’s shoulders as if recharging, and then whisk off with a bounce in his step. Like the aliens, and the presence of a companion goat, nobody asks about it. As if that’s how it’s always been in the first place.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title ripped from "sick of losing soulmates" by dodie 
> 
> If you reached the end of this one-shot and you feel like you've been sucker punched with how in love these two ace boys are, then I have done my job successfully. I will defend my ace boys TO THE DEATH. I didn't come here to build an complicated relationship dynamic. I, as an ace, wanted fluff and the sensation of relief, so I gave them a relationship where they didn't feel like they're not doing enough, that they don't have to constantly second guess themselves or their dynamic, and where even if one of them has questions, the other is so aware and understanding of where they're coming from that neither of them have anything to be afraid of. I'm not saying non-ace/ace relationships aren't worth it bcos obviously they are esp when you're in love w that person?? but like this is what I wanted to write so I DID.
> 
> The convo Lance has w his mum is basically ripped straight from ones I've had with mine, although I'm pretty aro so like, ???W/E MOM STOP QUESTIONING ME
> 
> ANYWAY I hope this left you feeling warm and fuzzy, thank you for reading and as ever, kudos and comments FUEL ME


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